Scarecrow's Nightmare
by La Fantasma de la Obra
Summary: Nolan-verse. Post Joker's death. Dr. Jonathan Crane aspires to be the best bad guy in Gotham. What happens when he finds his match in a very bad girl? What if this bad girl was an old patient of his and brings new ideas to the table? VERY developed OC paired with Dr. Crane. Rated M for future horror and romance. In their world, they're the same thing. Give it a shot and review!
1. Prologue- In Your Festering FACE!

A hood. The top of a trench-coat pulled over a head full of theory in order to hide a face that showed nothing but a cold stare or smirk. A hood was rarely used to cover that face, those icy eyes, those piercing features. They were more frequently than not, hidden by a mask of patched burlap. The burlap was too recognizable at his destination. His face was recognizable enough on its own; enough to get a nod from the clown-faced bouncer outside at the bottom of the rusty iron staircase wedged between two condemned buildings.

He nodded back in appreciation before starting up the stairs, then paused for a moment to take it all in; the smell of sulfur and trash, the only light coming from blinking yellow street lamps, and the sound of the lights buzzing and sirens in the distance. Sneering, he slipped inside the rotting, green doors of an abandoned, decrepit joke shop in the equally abandoned, decrepit ArkhamCity. The mothball smell of an antique type shop was better than that of the outside as was the firelight and silence. The silence he found a pitiful attempt at reverence. Past aisle after aisle of broken jack-in-the-boxes and whoopee cushions all drenched in purple and green paint, on the back wall was a mural of the clown king himself. Photos, flowers, letters, broken toys, criminal profiles, and blazing candles sat on the floor beneath it. "Why am I not surprised?" He chuckled to himself, "Dead and still demanding attention…"

Sighing, he continued, "I'm here for closure. You had disappeared before, but it was always some elaborate act. You were quite the exhibitionist…But Harley and the face? While amusingly warped, it wasn't convincing…to me at least, but boy, if she wasn't a nutcase before," He laughed a little. "She's running around with Poison Ivy and Catwoman now. You should be ashamed. She had SO much potential and she threw it all away, abandoned ALL of your teachings to join the girl scouts. So as the shrink I am, I HAVE to ask," He took off his glasses and put the earpiece in his mouth with a look of mock intrigue, "How does that make you feel?"

After a few seconds of a cackle, "I know I would be very VERY disappointed in her now. You see, if I were to choose to tote around a…how do you say it?" He gave an expression of being puzzled, dripping in sarcasm, before dropping his face back, "A skank, I would at LEAST make sure she was useful for something other than the bedroom." He smiled, "Oh! Speaking of backs, I have yours. Or, you know what? Maybe I'm putting a knife in it. You were the best criminal I'd ever seen with the most interesting tactics out there. But, you see, you were a psychopath. I'm a sociopath. There's quite the difference, my late friend. Not to mention the fact that my IQ is far higher than yours without even bringing out my doctorate. Considering the following, I say that I'm MORE than capable of taking your place as the most feared villain in Gotham." He took a moment from his rant to sigh happily, "Did I mention that the Batman retired? Mhmm, last I heard, he left the country entirely. Catwoman came back, but she's not a problem, and I doubt Robin can hold his own. That leaves little old me."

He paced over to the check out and put his briefcase on the counter. "Unfortunately I'm not as good at making friends as you are." Opening the briefcase and waving a little book around, "But that's okay! Because your little skank was dumb enough to let me have your address book and these guys make Falcone look like child's play, and not the fun kind with the doll. That's something else I'll need, but I'll get to that in JUST a minute. Anyway, I'm going to give the streets back to the gangs to get the concerned civilians out and to get on the bad guys' good sides. The goons are nice but uh," His eyes landed on the files under the mural, "They aren't creative enough for my liking, not like your bunch." He squatted down and began stacking files and when he had all of them , he stood back up and dropped them into his briefcase. "These should do. For now, that is. I'll need to expand my operation of course and I intend on reaching out not only to criminals or the insane, but to find those with actual 'super powers.' Who knows? Maybe I can find a girl with abilities aside from being on her back. Then I kill two birds with one stone right? Not ONLY a slut sidekick, but someone who could bring something new and useful to the table, like telekinesis or something. That's what I would want in a woman. Someone useful, untouched, with a pliable mind, and a high IQ would be nice. That way I could talk to someone after I romp while I'm smoking a cigar. Unlike most men, I like a good conversationalist. I'm probably here because I don't have one. No girl. No family. No friends. No competent goons. Sad, right?" He hooked the briefcase back. "I should get going now. I just wanted to stop by and assure you that Gotham won't go unharmed. I'm going to be a better, more planned, more precise villain than you ever dreamed of being. And I'm not letting ANYONE stand in my way. Not. Even. The Batman. Gotham will soon face its most menacing foe. Once again, it will fear the Scarecrow! So I bid you farewell, for the last time." He sighed happily and looked the place over one last time, "Enjoy rotting you sick son of a bitch."

With that, the man in the hood, with the briefcase full of files slipped back out the door from which he entered. He also walked past the giant with the clown face paint without thinking twice. But he did think twice. So he stopped and drew a business card from his coat pocket. "It's been a year. You'll need a new gig soon. Give me a call." He whispered as he returned to the shadows.

Once he was out of sight, the large man studied the business card. Golden, raised lettering in script with a phone number on the bottom. On the other side read two things. SCARECROW was scrawled in blood over the original inscription which was hard to read under the read. He squinted, and made out a name- Dr. Jonathan Crane.


	2. Cabin Fever at Its Finest

"Knock knock," Called a bored voice from behind the padded door.

"Why do you knock if I can't deny your entry?"

"Because it's polite." There was a buzz as the door opened and the tiny therapist stepped in.

"Pleasantries are irrelevant."

"No they're not, they show a positive attitude and-"

"Listen, Dr. Bern," Finally the patient pushed her chair away from her desk and removed her gaze from the computer screen. "It's not like I'm getting out on good behavior any time soon. Nobody's going to take a-What do they call me?-'an adolescent with anger issues and dangerous capabilities' to an appellate court."

"Perhaps not, but there IS the chance of being released at twenty one IF you've made substantial progress." The therapist was greeted by nothing but the annoyed stare of her patient. She sighed, "Alright Kala, I've been trying to be nice, but it's been a year, so unless you want to rot right where you're sitting right now."

Kala pushed a mass of wavy, chocolate hair behind her ear. "Hmmm, well…I can sit right here for another year and be fine with it. Online college is incredibly convenient when you spend all day in a maximum security cell. I'm going to complete a degree that would take most people four years, in two. Then, WHEN I get out, I can focus on my art. You'll watch the latest horror show, and see my name in the credits for making the zombies and such. Who knows? Maybe I'll study psychology." She smirked at the doctor and crossed her arms in defiance.

"A PhD will do no good for a person with a record as colorful as yours and you couldn't get a job with-"

"I could get a PhD without getting a license to practice you know."

Dr. Bern gritted her teeth. She HATED working with Kala. At one point, Kala was her favorite patient, because studying her mind was intriguing, but her attitude made her almost unbearable. She'd gotten focused on her studies and her artwork, which was constructive, but her side hobby of terrorizing other patients was right the opposite. The aftermath was awful to put back together. Her abilities allow her to project horrific images into the mind of others, creating individualized nightmares to torment the affected individual. It made her lethal as her simulations had the potential to cause heart attacks, strokes, etc., which is why she was placed in maximum security. She was like the Scarecrow without needing the hallucinogenic powder, but SHE hadn't killed anyone, yet. Getting out would give her the chance. It was something she daydreamed about frequently. She would track down someone who deserved to die like a corrupt politician or cheating husband and do something so horrific, the officers called to the scene would need their own therapists afterwards. She thought about making paintings out of blood and she frequently drew weapons and torture devices that would make Jigsaw proud. Dr. Bern never saw any of those of course. Kala was smart enough to watch what she said and she knew more about psychology than she let on, allowing her to play mental chess with the people around her. And with an IQ as high as hers, it was no surprise how frequently she won. "Why didn't you come to group therapy today?"

"A) That would defeat the purpose of me being in maximum security. B) I don't play well with others, especially not those who spend the day rocking back and forth singing to themselves in corners. I thought Arkham was supposed to be for the CRIMINALLY insane, not the random crazies."

"Thankfully, we're running low on criminally insane."

"That's ironic."

"How so?"

"I'm running low on patience. And C) It would've wasted my time that I could've spent studying, or drawing, or what not. That wasting of my time? That's what you're doing right now. So if you'd excuse me, I'd appreciate it, Janet." Kala grinned mockingly.

The petite woman cleared her throat and tucked her clipboard under her arm, "I'll be back."

"That's unfortunate. But don't worry, I'm not going anywhere." Once the door was shut, Kala jumped from her seat and yelled in frustration, pounding the wall. And, after a moment, she calmed down and flopped onto her bed, defeated. "Cabin fever at it's finest!" She groaned. Trying to control her breathing to prevent a panic attack induced, frightful hallucination, she studied the white ceiling for what seemed like the millionth time. The white ceiling bled into the padded white walls which in turn bled into the white tile floor. She sighed and stretched her arm back to reach under her pillow, from which she produced a studded, purple, leather diary with a black ball point pen. Equipped, she began writing:

_It's a sad day when the walls close in on someone who's NOT claustrophobic. I'd KILL for a change in scenery…Hell, I'd kill for a piece of cheesecake, or some velvety curtains, or just for the thrill. This has to be the crazy house because the crazies are the only people that can tolerate the monotony. I wish there was at least ONE entertaining psycho in the bunch! Like the Joker maybe! Is it bad to idolize a dead, psycho, serial killer, clown? To be honest, HIS crazy was a fun kind of dangerous that I find increasingly enticing. At this point, I'd probably find ANY man between sixteen and forty with something interesting to say enticing. Maybe we'll get a new stud-ly intern with a wild side. That would be nice. Especially someone who would admire my twisted sense of humor and strong stomach and goth look and above all else, my art. Someone who could take me seriously because I'm more mature than the average 19 year old. Someone who would be just as useful to me as I would be to them._


	3. Sweet Dreams

**Creak.** The iron bed rocked as she jerked. **Creak.** Finally she jolted upright, waking herself with a gasp. She breathed heavily for a moment, and ran a shaky hand through her hair, damp with sweat. _What is this?_ Her heart raced and she struggled to calm herself. _Cool it. I took my medicine. I shouldn't be having an attack. Breathe. _She held her knees to her chest for a moment, facing the door, and, finally, unable to calm down, stood.

Wobbling towards the door, she strained to call out for someone to bring her another dose. Not a sound came out but labored breathing and a squeak. _My God. _A fog of dizziness washed over her, sending her stumbling to hold herself against the door. She pulled upwards to put her face in the window as an SOS, but she saw no guard. What she was the reflection on a burlap mask moving towards her from behind. Had she been able, she'd have woken the guards with a scream. Instead, she gasped and spun around in time to be slammed against the door by the masked figure, and feel the prick of a needle into her throat. With a twitch, she began loosing her footing and sliding down the door, and before her consciousness fled, she caught a glimpse of the cold eyes of her attacker.

**Creak.** Kala rolled onto her side an opened her eyes. Groaning, her dizziness came back full force, bringing with it a throbbing headache and nausea. _The hell?_ Then she remembered the eyes, and clips came back to mind. The syringe in her neck, being tossed back onto her bed, feeling helpless, being physically paralyzed. She shut her eyes and tried to piece together what she could. **The masked figure loomed over her, pacing almost, scanning her with his eyes in a mechanical fashion. The way he looked at her, his breathing. She laid limp on the bed and followed him with only her eyes as he rummaged through her papers, drawings, and written work which all got stuffed into his brief case. **_Bastard drugged me. But how? _

"Heeehhh," She croaked, then swallowed hard in defeat. _Screw it. _Sighing, she let her gaze fall on the ground, which is where she spotted her gown. **His hands went under the fabric and part of her wanted to reach up and snap his neck. The other part of her arched at his hands as the white material came up and over her head, into the floor. **That's where her mind cut her off. No more remembering, probably for her benefit. _I don't FEEL like anything bad happened…that actually wasn't too bad…exciting even…This is why I'm in here. I'm crazy._ _Could I have just been dreaming? God I hope not. That's the best I've felt in forever. _She sat up and looked at the window, just leaking dawn's light. Maybe the brightness was what allowed one last picture to infiltrate her mind. She lurched forward as it faded. _A flirtatious, art stealing…scarecrow?!_


	4. Her New Therapist

She waited for the Scarecrow every night for a week; spending the days working in her virtual courses and her free time sketching the few images that came back to her. Since she hadn't actually harmed anyone in the institution, she had privileges like wifi, but ask one wrong question and they would be permanently snatched. So she kept her mouth shut and let her curiosity fester silently. The drawings got stuffed under her mattress in preparation and she fixed her hair at night in case her new friend were to stop by. Her psychosis blanketed the rational fear that should've been there, leaving her intrigued by the possibility of something new.

Finally, an exact week after the first incident, to the hour, Kala's door buzzed. She was sitting at her desk, furiously scribbling at another sketch. The buzz startled her. "Hello?" The door creaked open slightly and she felt a chill make its way down her back. "Hello?" The anticipation did an Olympic quality gymnastic routine in her gut. She stood and brushing the remainders of an eraser off of her lap. The door still didn't open. Frustrated, she approached it, and opened it the rest of the way herself. "Hellooooo?" A shadow passed at the end of the hall. _Dammit. If I leave, I could get caught. If I don't leave, well I'm pretty sure that's my scarecrow, and he might... Dammit. Here goes my perfect record._ With that, she followed the shadow down to the end of the hallway, and through several others, past staff only, card required doors which were already open for her. The halls went from being chilly and sterile, lit only by illuminated red exit signs, to being stuffy, dusty, and hot, filled with spiderwebs. The walls were stone, and barred windows allowed in moonlight. She stopped for a minute to catch her breath, realizing that she had no idea how to get back to her room.

Leaning against the wall, she breathed heavily, sucking in the gas she wasn't aware was being filtered through the toxic filtration. Within a moment, she slide down the wall into a heap in the floor, completely unconscious.

Waking up in a totally different place then you collapsed in, is a little concerning, especially when it's an unknown place that CLEARLY is not a hospital. Her head felt surprisingly clear for having just woken up, and she was able to look around. The room had a soft yellow glow thanks to the multiple small lamps turned on and dispersed throughout the room. Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, and were stuffed with dark colored, scholastic looking volumes, like an antique therapist's office. Suddenly, she became aware of her body, lying on a leather psychiatry sofa and groaned, "How much trouble am I in?" She sat up and spotted the desk across the room. A lanky figure hunched over some papers.

He looked up from the papers and smiled, "Oh good, you're awake." He stood and crossed in front of the desk. "And why would you be in any trouble? You did exactly what I wanted you to do." He was very tall, around 6'5", but very skinny. His face was pale, with sharp cheek bones, thin lips, and big, icy blue eyes hidden behind rectangular glasses. His hands, long and bony, brushed back his thick, brown hair, just long enough to not be called short, but too controlled to be called shaggy. After clearing his throat and straightening his tie, he said, "I'm Dr. Crane."

"What happened to my usual therapist?"

"She's fine, but I felt that you need a little more attention than she can give you, which is why I stepped in. I'm afraid we can't visit for very long this weekend, and our visit has to be kept confidential. Your cooperation is essential, but I'll leave it up to you, Kala."

Kala looked him up and down, and spending her time with crazies, he was the best looking thing she'd seen in quite some time, which is why she decided to cooperate with the mysterious therapist, and what allowed the thoughts of the scarecrow to temporarily slip her mind. "Ok, but I have some questions too. Starting with the obvious-"

"Excellent!" He cut her off, dodging the question. "Thank you! I'll waste no time then. So Kala, tell me; what's your relationship like with your parents?"

"HA! WHAT relationship?! Daddy was great when I was little, but once he found out I was a freak, he became disenchanted."

Dr. Crane tried his best to hide a smirk. _Daddy Issues? How cliché? Yet helpful. _"And your mother?"

"She was always a bitch. So I hated her."

"Hate is a strong word." He tested her motive.

"Which is why my choice is fitting." She snapped. She'd passed his test and he was pleased.

"What didn't you like about your mother?" He prodded.

"Everything."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Sure. Let's start with the patronizing, post punishment hugs. Say I misbehaved and got spanked, she would kiss me afterwards and look me in the eye, Judas, and say, 'I did it because I love you.' Yeah right. She totally enjoyed it…I was a chubby kid growing up, well, until a few years ago to be honest. You know how people always talk about the fragile self esteem of preteen girls?"

"Yes."

"Well she didn't care. I would come home crying, having gotten teased or something like that, and what would she do? She'd pat my bulging belly and tell me that maybe I should make myself better instead of giving them the right to tease me. Again with the patronizing, lying through her teeth, for you own good bull."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Now he was lying through HIS teeth. He was glad to know she was used to being tough in opposition.

"Then in middle and high school, she was always on me about cleaning my room, which I did, every weekend. But room's get re-messy during the week and she'd always check it the day before I had intended on cleaning again to make sure she could get me in trouble. I barely had time to clean as I was always in the highest levels of academics I could be, meaning I had an overwhelming amount of daily homework, plus extracurriculars. She thought it was humane to make me cut back on my sleep or the hour of me time I got during the day, to make me clean. I wasn't a robot, I couldn't sleep, eat, go to school, do homework, clean, do it again. I needed an outlet to get out my anger and stress or else I was going to explode, or worse, become a mindless cookie cutter teen conformist."

"Down time IS vital in a person's life."

"Exactly! So when I got in trouble with her, if it wasn't bad enough, she would drag Dad into it knowing that would make it worse. And she would put EVERYTHING off on me when, often, there was equal blame to be shared, or MORE often she was TRYING to get me in trouble. Whenever we argued, I couldn't fight back either. Er, fight is the wrong word. If I'd have fought her, she'd be dead by now. When we'd argue, I couldn't use logic. Believe it or not I'm an analytical thinker, so I thought logic was unbiased and could settle disputes. But no. She couldn't accept her mistakes so she'd yell, and get swingy with the back of her hand which held several diamonds. Then the punishment NEVER fit the 'crime.'"

"That doesn't make sense."

"EXACTLY! For example she would make me cut down on the amount of time I was spending sleeping. A) That's a health thing. And B) Sleep was all I had. It was an escape. I could battle the monsters in my head and decide things for myself and-"

"You're a lucid dreamer, aren't you?"

"I AM! And it's the most amazing thing. I tried to explain it to my parents one time, almost as a peace offering, to justify why I slept so much. But where they intrgued or accepting? No. They called me a freak who was too weak to deal with reality. That I needed to wake up and smell the coffee, etc. That they wanted to have me tested because I CLEARLY was messed up in the head. Messed up was their way of saying nonconformist. They just refused to wrap their brains around me NOT wanting to wear pearls and be a housewife or lawyer or doctor or something socially acceptable and the norm for an over-achiever. Eventually they go over it, but that's because they said I was 'too far gone.' …Anyway, that's how I mentally get out of her at night. I can travel to Paris, or wherever, all in my own head."

Jonathan stopped and considered what she was saying for a moment. It didn't sound like the Kala he'd read about in her file. "Really?"

"Yes sir." She studied the confusion on his face, and became confused herself.

"Do you REALLY go to exotic places in your dreams?"

"I was just giving an example of what I could do."

"But you've never visited the Paris in a dream before, have you?"

She shook her head and continued studying him, "No."

He stood and paced, "You see, I know a thing or two about lucid dreamers. Correct me if I'm wrong, but, because you can control your dreams and are cognitive, you dreams are all about your desires, aren't they?"

Kala was suspicious, "Yes, why?"

He laughed, "Why do I have a feeling seeing Paris isn't on your list of priorities?"

"It was just an example I threw out there."

"So what DO you dream about?"

"If you're not actually my therapist, why is it relevant to you?" Her suspicion raised and she gripped the arms of the leather chair tighter.

"Let me ask again this way; if your dreams were movies, what genre would they be classified in?"

"Foreign horror."

"Why foreign? Do you dream in other languages?-"

"Foreign horror films aren't rated."

"If you had to rate your dreams-"

"X, always, X."

"Why X?"

"Gore."

"Ah," Another test was passed. "So this gore is the result of someone attacking you? You attacking someone? Something else?"

"Listen, I want out of here within a year so I really shouldn't-"

"Shhh," He cooed, "Don't worry about it. I assure you, our charming little talk will be kept entirely off of the books. I'm fascinated by your story, not as another doctor…but as a friend."

"Great, I've been friendzoned by a villainous ex shrink." She grumbled.

"Hm?"

"Nothing." She looked down and pretended to be intrigued by the rug, "You should really vacuum."

"You should really not change the subject." He almost spat. She jumped. He cleared his throat, "I asked you a question, Kala."

"Fine. Sometimes I'm hurting other people and-"

"How? Murder? Torture?-"

"A little of both."

"Anyone specifically?"

"No, not really. Just people like crooks and cheating husbands and such."

"Of course," He nodded, playing along, then took another drink. "That's justified, and commendable."

"Why thank you." She smirked, "I've got a feeling we're going to be friends."


	5. Securing the Prize

"I want to see her again."

"It was hard enough doing the camera trick once so I don't think that's a good idea-"

"I DIDN'T-" He cleared his throat in an effort to calm his tone, "I didn't ask if you thought it was a good idea."

"I understand that Dr. Crane, but I'm telling you, if my boss finds out-"

"I AM your boss now. I am the one who is stuffing your pockets. Don't worry about your little higher-ups. I'll take care of them if need be." Dr. Crane stood and paced to his window. "After all, you get disrespected and demoted to subordinate rolls. You had a pay raise recently didn't you? What are you making now? Minimum wage?"

The large night guard fidgeted in his seat and wrung his meaty, tan hands, "Well, I-"

"Exactly…I will pay you quadruple in half the time. All I ask is that you convince your "boss" to cut down on electric bills by having the security cameras reset twice, for, say, five minutes at midnight and another five around four. Then set the timer yourself. Deal?"

"I'll try but I haven't crunched the numbers yet-"

"Make them up. Make it happen. I'll expect Ms. Sterling-"

"Who?" He scratched his head.

"Refrain from interrupting me you buffoon." He glared at the hulky, hairy man in uniform before him. "I mean Kala. If you looked at the patient files at all, you would know that her last name is Sterling, as in the Sterling family." He waited a moment for the guard to make sense of it.

"Don't ring a bell."

"The silver company you imbecile!" His voice made the thug cower. While the guard was twice his size, Dr. Crane managed to intimidate him with intelligence and power and he was proud of that. In reality, the guard was reluctant to entangle himself with the schemes of the Scarecrow, knowing that he was every bit as crazy as the people he kept in padded cells, just smarter. That was the scariest part.

Scarecrow ran a bony hand through his slicked dark hair in frustration and glanced at the clock. "Looks like your break is over." He sighed, patience wearing thin, and hoped that the big lug would take the hint.

He didn't. Instead, he drummed absent mindedly on the arm of the leather chair.

"GET OUT!"

This time, the large man lunged out of the chair and scrambled to the door at a speed that should've been impossible for a man of his size. Within seconds the door had opened and closed and he was gone.  
>Dr. Crane was silent and still for a moment before bursting, "God I hate uniforms!" He paced angrily for a moment, made a fist, and pounded his desk before coming to a realization. His hand had landed on her file and scattered the contents about his desk. His eyes landed on a dark sketch. "Well…what have we here?" He picked it up and eyed over the penciled outline of a glittering evening gown. After laying the sketch down, he opened his laptop and searched for seamstresses in the area. He made his selection and printed her information. With the completed order form and sketch in one hand, he turned off the lights and locked up. It was almost morning after all, and soon the office supply stores would open and he could find one with a fax machine.<p> 


	6. His Plan-Her Cinderella Story 1

Sure enough, the door to the left of the usually corridor was cracked open and flooding light across the dusty, cement floors. Kala took a deep breath, folding the mysterious note and sticking it back in her bra, and grasped the cold, steel handle on the door. Knowing how heavy those old doors were, she gave a heave, pulling with her body weight until the door gave. It grinded open like the sound of nails on a chalkboard, but Kala stopped when it was open just enough for her to slip inside.

(Earlier that day, whilst scrubbing the dingy teal tile of the kitchen as part of her rehabilitation, a meaty guard had interrupted her work. She instantly recognized the Italian night-guard, but before she could question as to why he was there during the day, he struck up a conversation with the pacing guard who monitored the patients cleaning the kitchen. He only acknowledged her with a nod, until making his exit when he dropped a small slip of paper out of his pocket. Kala looked over her shoulder to see if the guard had noticed. The hulking man in the white uniform tapped his baton in his hand and continued pacing, without paying any attention to her. She scrambled to the piece of paper, and unfolded it as quietly as possible. The blue inked, scrawled handwriting read;

"Dearest Kala,

For our session this week, I thought we would try something a little different. Stop by the office on the way to mine.

J.C."

She looked over her shoulder once more before folding the piece of paper and going to put it in her pockets. Sadly, her hand grazed the baggy fabric of her faded, blue, pajama/uniform pants and felt no pockets. "Dammit." She cursed under her breath. _Silly me, I forgot. Pockets are obviously dangerous so certainly I can't have them. _Instead, she slipped the note into her bra. Something about knowing where and what was hidden made her grin. And the floor was scrubbed a lot faster as she was motivated by the excitement and curiosity that came from the note.)

What had once been an office had been transformed into a dressing room of sorts. Kala gasped and leaned back against the door to close it. Every wall was cloaked with black curtains. In the center of the room sat a glowing vanity, the kind that you would come across in an old theatre's dressing room. The counter top of the vanity itself resembled the make-up counter at a department store. Bright colors, dark colors, glitter, little palettes, lipsticks, nail polish bottles, hair products, and hair styling tools sparkled under the exposed bulbs. On the small stool in front of the vanity laid another small scrap of paper of the same stationary as the note in her bra. Kala snatched it and examined the familiar blue chicken scratch;

"Dearest Kala,

Take all the time you need. Then meet me in my office. I'll be waiting. You're welcome.

J.C.

P.S. If you like what you see, it and more could all be yours."

Her head whirled. _What in hell? _She looked to the right side of the room and saw another sparkling display. This table was covered in a red, velvet cloth littered by jewelry. She grasped the table to keep from fainting. _I'm dreaming. _She shuffled through the gem stones and couldn't help but realize that every one of them was real, as was the gold, white gold, and silver they were set in. Several matching sets were on display for her to choose from. _Mom always said that if a man gives a woman jewelry, he's expecting something in return. _She looked over the table again and was dumbfounded with what he must've wanted in return. _Surely…_ A pair of black diamond earrings caught her eyes and she held them up to her ears and looked in the mirror. _He can't expect me to wear this kind of jewelry with these damn paj-_ "No!"

Out of the corner of the mirror she spied yet another glittering display. She span around and almost collapsed when she saw the rack of evening gowns. Biting her lip to keep from squealing like a kid in a candy shop, she lunged for the rack. There was a rose colored gown with ruffles, a one shoulder emerald gown, a shorter blue satin gown, and a dress bag. She recognized the name on the bag as a seamstress she'd once used. After furiously unzipping the bag, she immediately recognized the gown inside. It was a floor length, strapless, black evening gown. The glittering, skin-tight material had one slit that ran from the floor to the thigh on the left side and another that was technically a plunging neckline that would end just above her belly button. There were feathers on either side of the v and at the bottom and there wasn't a back. Inside the bag sat the shoes and headpiece. She couldn't believe that one of her sketches had come alive and looked that incredible. She stepped back to soak in all of the colors and lights. The variety was overwhelming. She hadn't been able to make a decision for herself in months and to have that many options, she was enthralled.

_He suuuuuure knows how to treat a lady. _Part of her was impressed, and excited by the idea of her therapist becoming something more. The other part of her was shocked by the theatrics and suspicious of the strange man she'd been meeting at midnight and his motive for wooing her so suddenly. She silenced that other part and indulged the fantasy of her therapist becoming something more. She couldn't deny the fact that, more than once, she'd admired Dr. Crane's striking blue eyes. His hair had also caught her eyes, as did his tall and slender frame and twisted smile and long bony hands. His cologne appealed to her nose and she got shivers upon hearing his smooth voice call her by name or ask an intrusive question. But most of all, it was the intensity of his demeanor. It reminded her of the stage production she'd once seen of Jekyll and Hyde; the internal battle between sincere doctor and madman. While it should've sent her running and screaming, it drew her in. He was intriguing and satisfying. It was then she decided she would play his game, even enticed by the idea of giving him something in return. She made her way back to the vanity and plugged in the curling iron, then smiled smugly at herself in the mirror. She knew she cleaned up nice. Part of her wondered what he meant by "it and more could all be yours." But the part of herself she'd allowed to win the prior debate had only one question in mind; _Who will be seducing who?_


	7. His Plan-Her Cinderella Story 2

_What the hell do you think you're doing? _Kala asked herself. Her white, now gem covered knuckles froze in front of the heavy mahogany door belonging to Dr. Crane. She looked herself over once more, exceedingly pleasured by how nicely she'd cleaned up. Maybe she'd cleaned up too nicely. She remembered what she considered mounting tension between herself and her new therapist; the chills she got when his hand brushed hers, the way they often maintained unblinking eye contact for extended periods of time. _Yep, he totally wants to get some. Don't be stupid. Just run away. Please. _Consciously she was arguing with her subconscious that screamed _Take me now! _The subconscious won, so she rapped on the door.

"It's open." Dr. Crane called from his perch on an arm chair where he sipped a single malt scotch.

_Here we go. _She pushed the door open, slipped inside, and leaned against the door to close it behind her.

They gasped simultaneously; the cause of his gasp was her breathtaking beauty after getting used to seeing her disheveled in uniform pajamas, and the cause of hers was not because he looked any better than usual. After all, a tux isn't that different from a suit. She'd gasped at the transformation his office had taken. His desk and patient seating replaced by a large, antique dining room set. The whole room was candlelit; a soft classical soundtrack played in the back ground. Like the vanity in her new dressing room was covered with makeup, the dining table was covered with food; prime rib, a large lobster, plates of asparagus, crème brulee, and chocolate cheesecake. She hadn't seen such decadent food since the last time she went to the country club with her parents, yet, somehow all of her favorites had appeared on the table before her. _Therapy or a date? Date therapy? This much effort is more like date rape. Cut and run. _

He rose from his seat, trying to suppress a smile among other things. He was floored. The once twitching mental patient of his was now a seductive socialite. "Let me look at you."

She gave a quick twirl.

"No no, REALLY look at you."

_Here comes the assault. _She froze, puzzled, and swallowed hard.

His eyes grazed over every black sequin cloaking her porcelain figure and every shiny, dark brown curl cascading from her head down her bare back.

_Visual assault. God, he's looking at you like you're bacon. _

He noticed how small her waist was in proportion to her hips and bust. Her sharp, dark eyes and strong jaw were accentuated by the makeup, and the red lipstick tempted him closer. "My my you clean up nice. And what I lovely dress that is."

"Yeah…I drew it."

"I know, I have it with the rest of your drawings."

"You took them?!"

"Temporarily."

"How come the dress fits perfectly? I doubt my measurements are on my file." Her mind flashed back to the night she was groped by the man clad in burlap. She disguised her suspicion with innocent curiosity. She knew exactly how her got her measurements and attempted to back him into a confession. But she knew that she wasn't likely to be able to out manipulate a criminal shrink.

"Please," He pulled out a dining chair for her, "Take a seat. I hope you'll enjoy dinner." She swallowed hard and reluctantly sat down. _This is probably roofied. Don't drink anything._

He popped a bottle of champagne. "Care for a drink?"

"Sure, thank you." _MORON!_

He filled her flute. She mentally calculated the expense he'd gone to for the meal; silver trays, western Australian lobster. Her high class upbringing allowed her to do the accurate math on the tab, but as her total hit three zeroes, he interrupted.

"After dinner, I have an activity planned for us, a little tour." He raised his glass for a toast, "To a good meal and good company."


	8. His Plan-Her Cinderella Story 3

"I do hope you'll enjoy this little field trip." Dr. Crane smiled and patted her hand, looped around his arm escort style. "Do you know where we're going?" Their footsteps, especially her heels echoed down the vast, empty, cement hallways. His flashlight beam bounced off of the old, metal, cell doors. Kala was hesitant to play along to that point. She'd known who he really was all along, and while it should've scared her away, it monopolized her attention. He was fascinating; such an unconventionally attractive man, also a sociopathic villain. While he had her conscious hypnotized, her subconscious tugged in her gut. _This guy's a nut job! C'mon Kala wake up and smell the coffee! He's dangerous! And gorgeous! But DANGEROUS! And totally in control! He could rape you then snap your neck and nobody would ever even find your body. Then again, you're crazy too…and he's the most excitement you've had in forever…_

Clearing her throat, she answered, "Well, I'm assuming you're showing me the old Arkham, because we can't walk outside of the gate without my ankle bracelet going off. Unless, of course, you've hacked that too." She debated whether or not she was going to play dumb, or try to impress and or intimidate him with her understanding. She decided on the latter, "Like you did the cameras."

He smiled, "My my, what a clever girl." Surprised, but refusing to show it, and curious, he continued, "What other conclusions have you come to?" Her intellect could be a good thing, but if she knew too much, if she got suspicious and objected, she would have to be dealt with accordingly.

"The bracelet and the cameras were common sense." The prior debate resurfaced and, again, she chose the latter. "I've also determined that you're not working alone. If you're a psychologist, chemist," She watched him watching her, urging her to continue . "And criminal mastermind-"

"Criminal mastermind? Wha-"

"Dr. Crane-er-Jonathan, I'm living in an asylum, not a cave. I see the news. And if it's not too much to ask, please don't patronize me like that. I know who you are, and I know what you've done. But I also know that Scarecrow is many things but, last I heard, an engineer was not one of them. That's how I know you have…" She stifled a chuckle, "Minions."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unamused, and quickly dropped her arm. "How long have you known?" He coolly demanded.

"From the beginning. I got locked up in late 2010. You were first arrested in 2005. I watched it on the news. Then you resurfaced in 2008, again, I watched it on the plasma screen in my home theatre. I'm assuming you were released in 2012 when Gotham went to heck and back thanks to Bane. Now that was one sucky villain. Again, on a hunch, I'm saying that because the city was so focused on rebuilding and wrangling the showy bad guys like the Joker and Bane, you could avoid the authorities and stay free. Can I guess again? You think they underestimated you so you're planning on sticking it to the man, am I right?"

The doctor froze, and then leaned forward, as if to kiss her. Finally, the moment she'd been waiting for! She closed her eyes and puckered. Instead, he lunged, "That no patronizing thing goes both ways!" He spat, scaring her into jumping backwards and slamming her back in a metal door, producing a loud CLANG. While he voice raised, his expression was still as emotionless as before. She, however, was still holding a flinching position, eyes closed, breathing heavily, pressed against the door. He smiled at the sight of a beautiful, young woman cowering before him, and dropped the flashlight. He stepped forward, towards her, "Is that clear?"

"Yes sir!" She opened her eyes shyly.

He came closer again, backing her back into the door. His hands slipped to her waist and caressed their way down to her hips. She shivered at the sensation and leaned in again, this time, reaching her hand to the back of his neck. BAM! She shrieked and his hand caught hers and slammed it into the door above her head. "You will NOT touch me without my permission!" Crippling pain shot through her arm and she cried out. "Shhhhhh," He held a finger to her lips as his hips pressed into hers. "It's not like anyone can hear you anyway…" Pausing, only her whimpers could be heard in the otherwise silent halls, "See there? And I can touch YOU whenever I feel compelled."

_Oh great, you're dead now. He's gonna kill you. Welp, 'least you probably won't die a virgin. Your hand is soooo broken. I was right, he'll kill you in here and no one will ever find you. _She sniffed helplessly.

He stepped away, straightening his bow tie and clearing his throat. "Shall we continue?" He picked up the flashlight then extended his other arm to her.

Her jaw hit the floor. _I might be crazy, but I'm not THAT crazy! He must be PSYCHO to assume that I'll go on with him after that! I should run! I should scream! …Or maybe I should play along because that's the safest bet at the moment. _She couldn't help but reach her unaffected hand towards him. Alas, he caught the other one in a grip tight enough to make her wince, then kissed it.

Dr. Crane escorted Kala through the winding, dark hallways until they reached a set of double doors, where he released her arm and leaned against the heavy door to open it. It screeched open. He flipped a switch on the wall, illuminating the room by the light of several, buzzing, blinking surgical lamps. "Tada… the same generator that lights my office lights these lamps."

"I see… This is the old operating room, right?" He nodded. The room was solid white tiles, spattered in mildew, dried blood, and spider webs. She approached the actual operating station and ran her fingers along the ice pick on the tray; cold, rusted metal under her soft fingertips. A small gasp escaped her lips as she realized that the dark ruby on her nails matched the dark ruby stains on the surgical tray; the same stains that were on the shredded, leather table and under it. The table had claw marks on the arm rests and dark stains in the middle. The restraints were brown leather with silver buckles, like antique belts. "This looks like a sketch of mine… One I see during my episodes sometimes."

"So you're familiar with that equipmenth?" He stepped closer to her.

She blinked, "Uh… this is a lobotomy station."

"That it is. And do you know how a lobotomy is performed?" Again, he paced closer.

_Say yes! Answer him before he stabs YOU in the head with the ice pick! _She turned to face him and stuttered, "I um…" Her heart pounded in her chest. Her palms began to sweat. _Fight or flight you dumbass! _

"They would start by incapacitating the patient by means of electrocution with that little contraption over there." He pointed to a device that looked like it would be in Dr. Frankenstein's lab. "It was a headband," His hands neared her head and he gave a light squeeze to her cranium, "Like this."

She smelled his cologne and tried to keep from twitching or squealing. She tried to hide her signs of fear, which were only dominated by her signs of arousal. Her face flushed and her whole body trembled as he once again leaned against her, hips into hips. She tried to step back, but only succeeded in stumbled against the surgical table. Lucky for her, it was bolted to the ground and his hands landed on her back as if to catch her. He actually lowered her. "Then they would lean the patient back. Examine the eye sockets."

"T-to pick which to begin with a-and they'd take the ice pick." She stuttered, staring into his composed, blue eyes. Clear and unmoving, his eyes reminded her of a deep pool… the kind people drowned in.

"And penetrate the socket." He shifted their bodies, eliciting a wanting whimper from her.

"Break the meninges-" She panted.

"With a mallet. Plunge deeper into the soft, sensitive tissues."

Her voice jumped an octave, "Move around in the grey matter,"

"DESTROYING it." He eased closer, painstakingly slowly, lips brushing hers ever so slightly. "And then…. Withdraw the pick." He leaned away.

Her mouth hung in protest. _That was close. ASSHOLE!_

"Then repeating with the other side." He dove this time and finally crashed his mouth into hers.

She jolted, in shock, feeling like she was being shocked. His full, heavy lips crushed hers. He physically took her breath away, then crammed his tongue into her inviting mouth, blocking her from getting air. She didn't notice until he pulled away from her mouth and she gasped. He nibbled at her neck as his hands lowered and lifted her onto the table. His hands pressed their torsos together, keeping her limp body upright. Her knees fell on either side of his waist and he finally returned to her mouth with one, light kiss.

"Kala… what would you think about us having similar rendezvous' more often?" He tucked a curl behind her ear. "I could turn my office into a private… lounge of sorts. Or we could come back her if you'd like."

Her eyes finally opened as she caught her breath, "F-for…. For how long?"

"Oh… I'm not sure. As long as you want."

She would've considered her words had she been able to think, "But I get released in a year and a half. W-what happens then?"

He tried his best to seem pleasantly surprised, "You would want to keep seeing me for longer than a year and a half?"

She realized she was sitting spread eagle on a table and quickly crossed her legs and arms, "Yes,"

He stood and stepped away from her, "Really? You're not simply toying with me because I'm the only thing available?" Dr. Crane pulled the sympathy card, which is why he had to turn away from her. His face would've given him away as he struggled to keep from laughing. For a smart girl, she was young and naïve.

"No!" She caught his wrist, "I'm genuinely… interested in you." _At least I'm not lying. Wait did I just enter into a relationship with Dr. Looney Toon? _

He smiled and patted her arm, "Thank you… I would genuinely like to get you out of hear as fast as possible. How does tomorrow sound?"

"Tomorrow?!" Kala jumped to her feet, "Don't kid around with me!"

"I'm not. I promise. I already have a plan in place."

_So the sick prick expected you to say yes. _"But how is that even-"

"Do you trust me?" He held her hands.

_HELL NO! _"Yes."

"Excellent! You'll meet me in my office then tomorrow evening same time, but you will have to follow my instructions EXACTLY." He warned.

"Anything!" She grinned eagerly.

"Then soon everything in the dressing room and more will be yours. As for now, return everything where you found it, remove the makeup, and straighten your hair back out." He looped his arm around hers again to escort her back, "Thank you for this evening, it was wonderful." He patronized her on the outside, and on the inside, laughed at her gullibility. She bought it.


	9. Live or Die, the Choice Is Yours

Certain death or potential death? Be discovered as an armed mental patient and immediately shot by law enforcement or attempt to slash through a crowd of the weapon-toting criminally insane playing Hunger Games? She looked back at the clock in the visitors' center; twelve twenty five a.m.; five minutes until the fire alarm would go off, opening every cell door, every exterior door, and every other door in between, releasing a bloodthirsty mob of psychos to stumble upon hidden weapons and take out their issues on security guards, doctors, other patients, and anyone or anything else in their vicinity. Masked henchmen would flood in through emergency exits and add fuel to the fire, exciting the patients. Most importantly, the door separating her from all of it would unlock and allow her the chance to make a run for it.

Kala tried to imagine the most terrible images she'd ever seen; grisly pictures of wounded soldiers from overseas on the news, disfiguring wounds, horror movies, violence, blood, guts, surgical procedures, terrorism. She tried to convince herself that she'd probably seen or written worse. She was one hallway away from freedom; that freedom being the third floor fire escape and a black SUV, promised by her doting therapist, Dr. Crane.

_A few minutes prior_

Holding a hand over her face to protect her ideas from the sudden blinding fluorescent lights, Kala stumbling into the visiting area. "Dr. Crane?"

He stood on the either side of the glass where the loved ones would sit, motioned to one of the booths, and picked up the phone fixed to the divider.

After adjusting to the bright light, Kala's eyes landed on a large, pristinely wrapped, brightly colored present with a big bow sitting in the chair in front of the booth where Dr. Crane sat. It looked like it belonged at a child's birthday party rather than an asylum. She picked up the box, sat in the seat, placed it in her lap, and curiously picked up the phone mounted on her side of the divider.

"Hello Kala."

"Dr. Crane, I hate to be cliché, but why are we in the visitor center instead of your office. I know you're about to correct me and tell me to call you Jonathan, but if you want to be on a first name basis why did you want me to meet you in such an impersonal place rather than in the intimacy of your office?"

"You should open your present. It would be rude not to, considering all the trouble I went to preparing it for you. I thought the wrapping was lovely. Reminiscent of a better time." He smirked and gestured toward the gift.

She raised a confused eyebrow and suspiciously, but carefully peeled back the wrapping paper to withdraw a garment box. She placed it on the table and lifted the lid. Inside laid a worn clown mask, a black janitor's jumpsuit, and a long knife with a red and black handle. With a gasp, the phone slid out from being wedged between her chin and chest. She stared in disbelief at the man across from her. He motioned to the phone again, looking pleased. She picked up.

"What the fu-"

"You're breaking out, we're causing a scene, and it is being set up to frame none other than Harley Quinn herself."

Kala's mind spun, "What the hell are you talking about?!"

"I'm sorry dear, but I'll have to make it quick. All of the security cameras have been disabled as they are every night, but they won't reactivate tonight, or ever. As we speak, your drawings are being collected from your room and a corpse, mutilated beyond recognition is being placed in your bed to account for your disappearance. The door you came in through locked itself upon closing, so you won't be able to exit until the door reopens at exactly 12:30. When that door opens, so will every other door in the building including cell doors and emergency exits-"

"The only way that would happen is if you somehow hacked the-"

"Fire alarm? I have my resources, which I can clue you in on now because you'll either help me or die. Now I apologize for being cliché with my villain speech. Upon the Joker's death, I stole his files on his henchmen and gained their favor with promises of amnesty. Your file was in his stack of potential recruits."

"The Joker wanted to recruit me? Why?!"

"You're brilliant. Your mind is twisted into producing morbid ideas and plans."

"My sketches?"

"Precisely. You have a criminal mind."

"So you want to use me? Now THAT'S cliché and I kind of saw it coming."

"While I won't deny wanting your talents on my side, I'm equally intrigued by you as an individual, warped but beautiful. I'm in need of a companion, a business partner as well. Talking to myself is bound to drive me crazy after a while."

"So not only do you want me to be your horror idea whore, but what? Your accountant? Your actual whore?"

"What do you want to be?"

"Not a mental patient. Or a case study or sidekick of yours"

"Kala, you would be none of those things. I'm trying to help your escape the stigma of the mental patient. Again with the cliché, but a chance to start over; new identity, new life. Finish school under a different name, open your own special effects business with my capital. All I ask is that you help me brainstorm along the way to start up my business. With the Joker gone, I have my chance to ruin Gotham-"

She burst into hysterical laughter, "You've GOT to be f***ing with me."

"More than likely, eventually of course." He smirked. "You need to get into the suit. We don't have much time. You'll get away unidentified and looked like one of the late Joker's cronies which will have presumably been sent by my ex colleague, Dr. Quinzel. So this suit is temporary, but if you'd like to help me full time, we could figure out a new one. I was particularly fond of the female reaper you drew."

"Slow down! What happens when the door opens? All the crazies get released? Then what?"

"More clown henchmen flood the building, bringing weapons for the patients. Chaos ensures, guards are slaughtered, by the time emergency services arrive, it will be a bloodbath. I will have a black SUV parked on the opposite side of the building waiting for you."

She ran a hand through her hair thinking, "So where's the secret passageway I'm supposed to use?"

He laughed, "There's no passageway."

She scooted back, "But…but the exit on the other side of the building is ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BUILDING PACKED WITH WEAPON WIELDING MANIACS!"

"Which is why I provided you the knife." He explained, coldly, clearly unaffected by her panic.

Kala froze, wide eyes staring at the floor. Her face flushed and her eyes began welling up.

"Don't worry, the patients will not have weapons larger than yours, and the clowns won't shoot you, provided you're wearing the mask."

"That doesn't matter…Some of those people are bigger than me…Some of them have a history of going nuts and slashing people! Some of them have used weapons before!...I haven't." She sniffed, "I'm going to die tonight, aren't I?"

He sat back, jaded, and didn't answer.

"Aren't I?!" She yelled into the phone, tears spilling over. _I'm really a goner. This is it. This is wrong. I could be waking up in my cell tomorrow morning, marking off days until my release and instead I'm going to be slaughtered in the same damned building. I'm going to die in here. I'm never getting out. I'll die before I finish my degree. I'll die before my first legal taste of alcohol. I'm dying a virgin. I'm dying and no one outside will notice or care and it's all his fault. You should've known better than to get involved. You should've reported him then stayed away. STUPID! STUPID! _

"That's entirely up to you." He licked his lips and leaned forward towards the glass, "Make it to the car, and you'll never see this place again. You'll be happy, and wealthy, and free. In twenty four hours you and I can be sipping wine in a candlelit hot tub. And I suggest you learn to withhold the tears, you're better than that."

"You bastard! You rigged all of this, so you could've just as easily gotten me out without this mess!" She stood, panting, tensing her hands into fists, and pacing. _He could've saved you, but instead he's going to ensure you die. What to do? What are you going to do Kala? _

His unamused expression tipped her over the edge.

The knife still sat in the box. She ran her hand over it, then in one swift moved, grasped it and lunged at the glass divider. "YOU!" THWACK! "COULD'VE!" THWACK! "SAVED ME!" She furiously slashed at the bullet proof barrier.

Dr. Crane grinned, "You know what they say, hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn." With that, he stood, and placed the phone back in its cradle.

THWACK! THWACK! "YOU CAN HELP ME!" THWACK THWACK THWACK! The glass didn't even crack. "HELP ME! PLEASE! TAKE ME WITH YOU!" THWACK THWACK!

From his side of the wall, he only heard the clicking of the blade against the several inches of glass. Her voice was faint and sounded like it was coming from underwater. He was calm, his side was quiet aside from the steady tick-tock of the omniscient clock behind him.

She was screaming loud enough to make her throat hurt and her ears ring. "GET ME OUT OF HERE! I DON'T WANT TO DIE! YOU BASTARD!" THWACK THWACK.

Finally, he screamed back at her, excited in a sadistic manner, "YES! Channel that anger! That's exactly what I want to see! Use the violence! Yes! That's how you swing the knife! I'll see you on the other side my pet!" He turned and went towards the door.

"DON'T GO! JONATHAN! DON'T LEAVE ME ALONE TO DIE!...JONATHAN!" He exited without a word.

After several more swings, she gave up and collapsed into a sniveling fetal positon on the freezing, speckled tile. Another moment later she realized that wailing would do her no good. She sat up and wiped her eyes and nose with her hand, then stared at the opened gift. _See you on the other side? Dick. My pet? Asshole. I hate him. You shouldn't have gotten involved. Moron. Why wouldn't he just break me out? Why all of this?...This has to be a test of some sort. A test of my ability to kill or my ability to keep from being killed? I get out and he's gonna make me do horrible things, isn't he? _

She stood, reluctantly and held out the suit. She put it on. _What if I have to kill someone in order to save myself? That's not wrong, right? Yes I've considered what it would be like to kill someone in the past, but that was different. Not real people with lives and families. Just flesh and what it would be left to cut or rip into. You can't deny you've thought about those things. How hard do you have to stab someone the make the knife go all the way through? How hard do you have to squeeze an eyeball to get it to burst? I can find out without penalty here. It's not like these people, these patients have lives…their families practically abandoned them. Hell, most of them were practically corpses already. But killing for fun is immoral. Murder is only ok in self-defense. I'll have to defend myself, so I'll probably kill somebody. Let that sink it. _She stared at her reflection in the glass as she put on the clown mask. _It's not that long a hallway. You can sprint across in twenty seconds or less. Maybe I won't have to even use my knife. _

_Return to the present:_

_Or maybe I want to. He said channel the anger. I'm mad at him. He could've save me but instead he gambles me in a game. Bastard. I'll make it through this. I'm going to save my life to end his. I'll sprint the distance, jump down the fire escape, and slash his throat. Then I'll take the car and run away on my own. _

The clock's ticking took her out of her deeper thoughts. Ten seconds. She shifted back and forth on her feet as she stood before the door. Nine. Eight. Seven. She felt the heavy weight of her weapon in her hand and shook out the tension. Six. Five. Four. She took several deep breaths. _You're gonna kill him. _Three. Two. One.

The lights cut off.

The generator buzzed.

Red exit signs glowed and illuminated the hallway.

Her door clicked unlocked as did every other door in the building. Confused patients sat up in their beds, woken from the clicking and red glow.

AHRUUUUUUUUUUGHAAAAAA! The alarm sounded. AHRUUUUUUUUUUGHAAAAAA! _Show time. Do or die to a whole new level. _It was like those torture movies she liked. The face of the target faced puppet appeared in her head and his voice grumbled, "Live or die, the choice is yours." She rammed into the door and ran for her life.


	10. Hallway to Hell 1

Her head pounded so badly after crying that the first scream almost didn't register. Her feet pounded so quickly against the tile that she ran right past a patient driving an emergency fire axe into the night nurse's back; red spattering the baby blue hospital gown and white scrubs alike and pooling on the shining floor. _Don't stop. Don't stop. _She watched the hallway grow nearer and nearer until she was blurring past opens doors. The usual smell of bleach was overpowered by that of smoke as a small fire erupted at the nurse's station while a patient poured something into a copy machine.

ARRRRUUUUUGA! ARRRRUUUUUGA! The alarm continued to sound. Papers flew around under the illumination of the red exit signs. More screaming was accompanied by the wailing of the less mentally sound individuals. A mutant of sorts squealed and zipped across the hallway in a wheelchair while three of his cohorts mauled a security guard; the one on his back bit his ear off, another lunged at his gut, the last sliding his feet out from under him. He fired his gun as he fell, but missed all of his assailants and was taken down in the blink of an eye. Another deformed patient spun in an office chair and continuously fired a gun in circles at the ceiling.

The fire finally triggered the sprinklers, which only stirred the pot. A patient cried, the water having disturbing her bloody finger painting. Another flung pills like a flower girl at a wedding. Kala bolted past a room where a younger girl sat crying and rocking in the corner. A large male patient braced himself for the impact of a charging security guard. They clashed. The security guard ultimately was the one to die; the patient snapped his neck with his bare hands.

ARRRRUUUUUGA! ARRRRUUUUUGA! In came the clowns. One of the relatively sane female patients tried to flee, but was stopped by a clown who caught her by her hair and drug her, screaming down the hallway. Another clown hoisted a smaller, older patient into the air, looked her dead in the eye cackling, then slammed her against a steel door until she slid down limp and lifeless, leaving a red smear behind her head. He then made eye contact with Kala and nodded as she passed, stopping her in her tracks in time to see the crazies turn on each other. One held another down and slammed syringes into his eyes.

Crazy patients versus crazy patients. Crazy clowns versus crazy patients. Crazy patients versus crazy doctors. Total anarchy. A large clown erupted through a cell door, catching a flailing psycho by the foot and proceeding to bludgeon the life out of him with a wooden baseball bat until his howls ceased. For a moment, she pitied the dead patient. She pitied most of the patients. None of them asked for this. Some of them had actually been docile during her time at the asylum, and she would go as far as to call one or two of them pleasant.

And then it struck her. Why the clown winked at her. Why SHE had a clown mask. Anyone without a clown mask would die tonight. While the clowns weren't guaranteed safety, every doctor, nurse, security guard, therapist, and patient were all promised death. The once defined hierarchy of the asylum crumbled before her eyes. The doctors that once tortured their patients with unnecessary procedures such as electroshock "therapy" were being mutilated alongside their prisoners. Regardless of their titles, name key cards, or degrees, everyone bled the same. Everyone's screams sounded similar.

Kala had always wondered what it was like to watch someone die. This was the first time she'd seen it, and while she'd half expected to be saddened or nauseated, she found herself intrigued. One minute, a helpless victim screeched and bled, and the next, he or she was still and white. It was so sudden. It was all so sudden. Even more sudden was the blow that sent her stumbling into the medication dispensing counter.

"Shit man!" The same night guard who ensured that Dr. Crane's appointments with Kala went unnoticed, came along to watch mayhem ensue inside his workplace. "She's done!" He laughed and pointed at the monitor. The impact cracked the sliding window panel AND her back.

Dr. Crane leaned back in his seat and shook his head, clearly not phased, "I wouldn't be so sure. I picked her for a reason. I don't think she'll disappoint."

"Bu-but what if she does? What if this guy kills her?"

"Then I'll have to work on my own and find another partner later, won't I?" The buffoon shrugged and directed his attention back to the screen. "Because you surely won't do." He looked around, disgusted by the guard and the two beefy paramedics. The stretcher rattled against the side of the back of the van. "Can you not secure it tighter?" The two loafs went to work on it. He turned his focus back to his tablet screen. "Come on."


	11. Hallway to Hell 2

"BAM! HEHEH! GOTCHA GOOOOOOOD!" Kala shook her head to gain some clarity and was hosted into the air by the collar of her janitor suit. "Clowny bastard! You ain't gonna get me!" A huge bearded man roared at her. He was a patient. She knew him. He was the product of inbreeding in the backwoods of Kentucky, with an IQ low enough to be considered mentally retarded, and that mixed with mental instability and his size led to a dangerous individual.

She kicked at him, but was stopped as he slammed her back against a wall. "You's a little man! Easy to throw! You ain't gonna get me!" _How's the suit not tearing?! _

"LET GO!" She jerked.

"What?! You's a lady ain't cha?! Well ma'am that changes everythin'!" Sure enough he dropped her. _Hey don't get raped. _"S'been a long time since I got hold of a nice ass."

She scrambled to get her footing but was knocked back down by his bodyweight landing on top of her. "GET OFF!" _Say something more effective! Longer? To the point! You can NOT lose it to this hick! _They wrestled on the tile before he flung her arms above her head and began groping her. Feeling her hand brush something, she grabbed and retrieved a pencil from the scattered pile the got knocked off the counter.

"Mmmm, you smell pretty…and you soft too…"

She shook. _You're about to kill someone. _"Last chance, white trash. Hands off."

"No deal sweetcheeks. You cain't stop me, but gimme a minute and you'll be beggin' for mo-AW!" Insulted by his advances, she drove the pencil into his neck. "You little bitch!" He slammed her hands back again with one of his and with the other, tore open her janitor suit. _So NOW it gives! _She leaned forward and head-butt the pencil farther into his neck, finally causing him to gag. He released her and rolled over to pull out the pencil. _Now's your chance, RUN! _Her rational mind said flee, but an anger pent up inside her. _He tried to rape you. What if he makes it out of here? He doesn't DESERVE life in prison. The scum doesn't deserve the joy of an execution. THINK about what he was going to do to you. His hands all over…_

Dr. Crane sat forward, intrigued.

"Why isn't she run-"

"Shhh!" He shushed the henchman, "Because he deserves to die and she knows it."

She crawled over to the mound of fat and hair and reached for another pencil. As he withdrew the first, she replaced it with a second, stunning him long enough to drag it downward, slicing open the front of his neck. Blood squirted like a chocolate fountain hit a ceiling fan, splattered her mask and soaking his beard. She yanked the pencil out and stabbed it back into another point in his neck, only satisfied when the blood stopped squirting and the patient stopped squirming. Sure he was dead, she stood and brushed her hands on the legs of her torn costume, strangely satisfied and reeling from adrenaline. _You got a kick out of that, didn't you? _A smile found its way across her face. _He coughed up blood? Badass! I should be shaken. Hell, I'm out of tears._

The same grin crept across her doctor's face. "Good girl. I told you she was capable."

"That was sick man!" Another henchman cried, clearly nauseated.

"SHE is sick. HE was sick. I am sick; we're all fucking sick. Get over it."

ARRRRRUUUUUUUUGAAAAAAA! _How long has it been? Ten seconds? Ten minutes? Feels like forever. The SUV! Can't miss it! Dammit I got spun around! Where's the door?! _Frantically, she scanned the area. The action seemed to be dwindling. _Finally. _She spotted the open door leading to a fire escape and suddenly her throbbing head and sore hands felt relief. While she sprinted for the door, she felt as if she was moving in slow motion. The cool night air beckoned her forward. The moon reflected on the rails. It was almost too easy. Freedom getting closer and closer. Her hellish nightmare was coming to an end at last.

As her foot crossed the threshold, so did another. "PEEK-A-BOO!" A tiny mutant girl whirled around from her hiding place behind the door and plunged a kitchen knife into Kala's abdomen. The girl squealed with laughter as Kala shrieked in pain. She crumpled onto her knees on the balcony. Her assailant squeaked and turned back towards the doorway. Kala caught her first, catching her off guard by catching her foot, tripping her, sending her bouncing and clanging down the fire escape; leaving dark stains on each stair she hit, finally she crunched as her body collided with the ground. There she lay, motionless and contorted.

With a deep, painful breath, she caught hold of the rail and hoisted herself upright, nearly fainting from the agony of her abdominal muscles clench around the sharp foreign body. She inched forward and lowered herself onto each step. _Easy. One at a time. OW! Take it out! No, you'll bleed out! Leave it in. _Trembling, she turned each corner until finally, the metal railing ended. _What?! No! You'll have to drop the last few feet! You're tall-ish! _She began smelling smoke and looked up towards the doorway which was now glowing orange. _Great. Fire too. Hurry up before this heats up and barbeques you to death. _Once again, she got on her knees, this time turning her back to the drop. Leaning on her right side as to not disturb the knife in her left, she leaned forward to extend her legs downwards. The tightening of her muscles as they lifted her legs became too much and gave out, sliding her over the edge.

She wailed as she crashed into the lawn, blacking out momentarily as even the handle of the knife disappeared into her torso. _Open your eyes. Open your eyes! _She did. _Where's the SUV? Where's the black SUV? Gotta get to the SUV, he'll help me. _No SUV. Nothing but dead grass and a huge fence. A big sky and big trees. A burning building behind her. No SUV. _Where's the damn SUV?! _She rolled onto her back and prodded gently at her wound. Pangs flooded upwards from the incision, her fingers met gooey flesh and wetness. Wincing, she looked into the distance for the car. _I'm going to bleed out. I was right. He is going to let me die. Asshole. _


	12. Heaven Has to Be Better Than Arkham

_If this is what dying is like, maybe it's not so bad. _After a few minutes, or maybe several, she couldn't tell, the pain in her abdomen subsided and she felt a chill but physically couldn't manage a shiver. She believed in God; she grew up in church; she believed in Jesus; she prayed frequently in her cell; and she was pretty sure there was a Heaven. Now, she was particularly hopeful of the possibility of a Heaven. The old scriptures crossed her mind, as did the Lord's prayer, among other things. _Funny that people always return to religion in their last moments. Too bad I won't get a funeral. Ah, no one would come anyway. Maybe some saint will plan one. Maybe with pretty purple flowers and an ornate headstone on a hill, maybe some trees with Spanish moss. I always did like cemeteries. I wonder if dear old mom and dad will ever visit. Who'm I kidding? They won't. Maybe some passerby will pause at my grave every now and again and wonder who I was and why I died so young. It's almost poetic. Dying young is better than getting old and feeble and spending my last few years on life supports, stuffed with wires, occasionally being electrocuted back to a tortured consciousness. That would suck. This isn't bad. Pretty sky, lots of stars, soft, green grass, gentle glow of a violent fire to the side. Yeah I could be suffocating in smoke or roasting to death. In comparison, bleeding out is kinda peaceful. I'm drowsy, but not scared. Maybe this'll be easy. Like falling asleep. But am I ready to give up?_

She strained to look at the pointy, iron gate which was disappointingly still. _Guess they're not coming. Will he be happily rid of me? Or pissed that I died? It's his fault anyways. He has no right to be mad at me. Nobody does. I've done nothing wrong. Hell, I'm even dying a virgin. A murderous virgin. _A small chuckle escaped her. _At least I know what that's like. And it was self defense, so it technically wasn't wrong. _

_I wonder how long I've been lying here…I wonder how long I've got left. This is better than waiting to get hit by a bus or diagnosed with cancer. After all, Bible says your days are numbered anyway. So this was unavoidable. Maybe if I hadn't been in Arkham I would've gotten hit by a bus. Some giant clock in the sky is ticking to a stopping point and all I can muster is, "'Least I wasn't hit by a bus."_

_The only sad part is thinking about all the things I enjoyed that I've done for the last time. I think that's worse than thinking about the things I'll never get to do. Sad, but at this point I'm numb and all out of tears. There are supposed to be no tears in Heaven, which sounds great, but does that mean I'm not free to determine my own emotion?_

_Is he really not coming back? Here I lay, the damsel in distress I swore I'd never be, waiting for some man to come to my rescue. Maybe I'll die to spite him._

_I'll never go to another amusement park or ride a rollercoaster. I'll never see another Christmas tree with twinkling lights by a warm, crackling fire. I'll never eat another birthday cake. Damn that sucks. At least I'm going not going to be a fat corpse._

_I'll never finish my degree or have my own makeup studio or direct the world's goriest horror films, much less win awards for any of the above. I'll never share a bed with a man, or touch one in certain ways, or see one minus the clothing; share a bubblebath or a bottle of wine. No white wedding for me. No kids. I hate rugrats anyway. But I wonder what it feels like to be pregnant. Guess I'll never find out._

Her vision began to blur and fade. _Oh shit. This is it isn't it? Aren't I supposed to see dead family members or a bright light or something? _Her head felt lighter, but her chest felt heavier. _Think happy thoughts. I said Christmas tree? Think pretty lights, think warm, think Christmas music and gingerbread men. The last time I'll close my eyes. _She kept the soothing image in her mind while whispering the Lord's prayer repeatedly…until she gave a final sigh and stilled.


	13. I Told You You Had to Make It to the Car

Not a moment later, a large, black vehicle pushed its way through the side gates.

"Do you seen anyone?" Dr. Crane asked the henchman peering through the SUV window.

"No sir."

"Pity. Keep an eye out. She's tall, if she's standing you'll see her." While it wasn't heartfelt, nor sincere concern, the doctor became slightly anxious to find out whether or not his pet survived.

"But what if she isn't standing?" The second henchman asked.

He thought for a moment, then took a peak out the window. The flames roaring out the door of a fire escape reflected in his glasses' lenses and he smiled at the irony. Then he thought about the fire escape and called to the driver, "Stop here." He removed his glasses and replaced them with his burlap mask, then put on gloves before open the back of the SUV and stepping out. "Kala?" He called. No answer. "If you can hear me, I told you you have to make it to the car. If you're hiding, you have three seconds to present yourself before I change my mind." He threatened her like a parent would a child. Technically speaking he WAS old enough to be her father.

The armed henchmen fanned out. "'S quiet boss."

"It's been three seconds, can't we go?"

"Yeah, cops'll be here soon. She's probably dead."

"Yeah, not worth getting caught. Where are the rest of our guys?"

He put a finger to his mask to silence them. "THEY are dead…but I have the feeling she isn't. Not quite yet." He strode forward a few feet before he spotted something in the grass a couple yards ahead. "Go get the gurney."

Once he arrived at the bloody mass, he squat down to get a closer look. He removed the mask from her face, white and cold. "Kala, I told you to come the car." He spoke loudly at her, cupping her face in his hands. She didn't flinch. He patted at her cheeks. "Get up. Only the weak surrender to death so easily."

He handed her mask to minion behind him who responded, "She's already dead."

The looming Scarecrow sighed and looked over her body, noticing the still oozing wound on her side. "No she's not…Kala, I'm sorry, you leave me no choice." His gloved hand grasped the inch of knife-handle protruding and began slowly twisting. It provoked a faint wince, perhaps a small gasp, along from a twitch from the young woman on the ground. "Open your eyes. Look at me." She gagged and spit up some blood, the red spilling over her chin. "Kala, if you don't open your eyes, I'll assume you've changed your mind. Being the gentleman I am, I'll even do you're the courtesy of putting a bullet in your chest. Wouldn't want to waste your face. Tell me, do you WANT to die here?" Her eyelashes fluttered open. "Look me in the eyes." She forced her eyes to loll in the direction of his. "I'll take that as a no."

By that time the stretcher had arrived. Crane withdrew a knife from his pocket, sliced off her janitor's uniform, wadded it up, and passed it off to one of his men who hurled it into the flaming doorway, disintegrating the evidence. They gently hoisted the girl onto the gurney, strapped her in, and wheeled her back to and into the car. As soon as it was secured inside, the boss motioned for silence, and all heard the faint sounds of approaching sirens. He shut the door and directed the driver, "Leaving out the back would be a good idea." And so they did, wheels screeching behind them.

The specially selected EMT goons began working over her. One examined her stab wound, another looked over the rest of her cuts and bruises, while another fitted her head with an oxygen mask.

Crane took a seat by her head, "Wow…You are quite impressive…The way you took out Mr. Dueling Banjos…You seemed to have enjoyed it. I'm rather pleased. And you managed to hold out long enough for us to get to you. Not making it to the car on your own? Now that's a forgivable offense considering today was your first day. Not only am I proud of you, but I bet your parents would be proud of you too and I DON'T mean those pitiful people that dumped you in that hell hole." He removed his mask and withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket, proceeding to wipe the actual, reeking, mixture of blood, sweat, and tears from her face. "Ever heard of The Reaper, or Fright? Perhaps by their other names; Judson Caspian and Linda Friitawa? Doesn't ring a bell? I'm honored to be the one that gets to inform you that your family tree is comprised of villains, just, like, me. And like you'll be…in due time. I never met your father, only heard of him, and very much admired his work. You mother on the other hand, mentored me. You see, she exhales a fear toxin, similar to the one you excrete and was my inspiration for making my Scarecrow gas. Unfortunately, she was caught. Fortunately, she was caught before I was. She landed in Arkham for her cruel, genetic, fear experiments. There, she met your father and they mixed well. You were actually conceived IN Arkham. But when they found out you were a girl, you father wasn't happy and attacked your mother in an effort to kill you. It didn't work; she was rescued by staff members. Your father escaped shortly thereafter. You were born in the asylum and were immediately taken out and adopted off to the "parents" that raised you. Your mother escaped seeking revenge on your father for his attempt at your life. That's not the point. He's cryogenically frozen. She's still alive, gallivanting around with The Black Mask-"

"Hate to cut the story short, but-"

"I remember." Dr. Crane reached across her for the swinging IV bag. "This is morphine. You'll probably black out anyway but this should help with the initial pain." He placed it into her arm quickly, with precision, as he was used to plugging needles into patients. Whilst looking her over, he made several tsk sounds, "Those uniform undergarments are awful." He took her hand, "Tell you what. When you wake up, I'll have some proper items for a lady, maybe lace, very expensive, elegant, with French tags…In the mean time…" He nodded at the goon examining her wound, and with that, he withdrew the knife with one motion. As it was torn, her back arched in agony and her eyes rolled back into her head before she lost consciousness.


	14. Morphine and Brandy

_Are there cicadas in Heaven? _ Kala took her first truly deep breath in what seemed like ages and was brought back to consciousness by the sharp pangs in her gut that her expanding lungs provoked. She groaned.

"Good, good, you're finally coming to." A voice came from the corner. "Don't strain, but if you're in pain, let me know and I'll take care of it.

_Why do I hear cicadas? That didn't sound like Jesus. That sounded like Dr. Crane. If it's Dr. Crane then I must be in Hell, which makes sense because cicadas prefer warm environments. Open your eyes. Open your eyes. Ouch dammit! Open your eyes. _Finally she did. They were staring up at the speckled ceiling and slowly turning antique fan. It was dark aside from the glowing and blinking of what she assumed was a tiny, outdated TV on the other side of the room, barely making any noise. As her senses came back one by one, she took in more of her surroundings and her physical state. She realized her throat was dry and sore then swallowed hard to assuage the sting. The walls looked yellowed, an old floral wallpaper perhaps. She blinked a couple times and raised her head slightly. The whole room was plastered with it. Yellowed lace curtains blew on the open window which allowed her a view of a field. _Corn maybe? _She shifted and felt the familiar pricking of an IV in her arm, the weight of a quilt on top of her body, and the firm spring mattress underneath her. It smelled like an antique store. _Where's my hair?_ In fact, it was splayed around her head on the pillow, as it one would see in a casket. Her movement caused the cast iron bedframe to creak.

He rose from his seat between her bed and the TV. "Glad you feel like moving." Approaching her bed, he swirled the ice around in the cocktail glass he carried. "Unfortunately we can't move yet. But never fear, we will eventually. I apologize for this dump but it's just temporary. With the…incident all over the news…well we wouldn't want to be caught in town now would we? Nobody needs to know that you survived…or that I'm no longer…Irrelevant. How are you feeling? Any nausea? Headache?" He smelled strongly of an expensive mixture of cologne and brandy.

"W-" She whimpered and held her side. "Well…my side hurts…" She had to gasp between.

"I'm sure. That's what happens when you get stabbed. Bullets are fast, hot, sterile. They often cleanly sever so many nerves on the way in, that they're less painful. Of course, often, they go in one way and right out. Makes clean up easier. But the blade you were stabbed with was serrated, practically shredded its entire path into your abdomen and the withdrawal only caused more damage; we couldn't even close the wound properly." He looked her over, "I'll up your morphine." Stepping to the side, he tampered with some beeping, medication dispensing device. "Just relax."

Groggy, she gave in and sunk back into the pillow. He set his drink down on the nightstand and took a seat close to her head. "Shhh," He whispered, gently brushing her hair out of her face. Continuing to stroke the top of her head, he continued speaking in a soothing tone, "Your heart didn't give out once…Shame…We didn't get to test our new defibrillator…." The sight of her, white, and motionless would've seemed worrying to most, appeared peaceful to him. "Poe was right…There's something about a dead woman…It's beautiful…serene…As if your youthful beauty could be preserved in a casket for all eternity. Have you ever seen a ghost? The image of a wispy apparition in a film perhaps? There's always this young lady, deceased of course, wandering a mansion or cemetery or church, always in white. She's the picture of grace, innocence even. Always distant. Always cold. Always mourning something like the loss of her soldier that would never take her to wife. So tragic. So angelic…Ever since I was a young man, I was fascinated by that image…I even considered being a mortician in hopes that I would get a glimpse of it in person one day…I thank you for that." With that, he patted her hand and returned to his seat in front of the TV.

He cranked the volume knob slightly to hear; "Welcome back to Gotham News Network. I'm Carol McAndrew. Tonight, breaking news in the Arkham Asylum incident causing mass confusion and new concerns for the local authorities. Unfortunately, it has been discovered that the fire left not one survivor and as that is troubling enough, it seems that something even more grisly happened inside." The screen split into the blonde reporter on the left and a middle aged man on the left. Together, they painted a nauseatingly plain pair. The man holding the microphone stood in front of the front iron gates enclosing the charred remains of Arkham. "Yes Carol, I'm here at the scene of the tragedy that claimed the lives of over one hundred mentally ill individuals along with fifty plus of their care and security team members. With that the case, forensics teams were baffled to discover more than those one hundred and fifty bodies. Lucky for the investigators, not everything burns. Found in the ashes were weapons not belonging to the security personnel including machetes and steel baseball bats. Our only clue as to who they belonged to and why they were being wielded in this mental health hospital were a few seemingly fire retardant, Halloween, clown masks. This leads authorities to believe the whole ordeal might have been a planned attack by notorious clowny villain, Harley Quinn, as an act of commemoration in honor of her late mentor, The Joker, who was killed just over a year ago. Now we ask, 'What lead her to destroy her former place of employment?' Anyone with any information regarding the whereabouts of Harleen Quinzel, also known as Harley Quinn, should call our hotline on the number seen at the bottom of the screen. Thanks, back to you Carol." He pressed a button and silenced it, pleased with himself that his set up had worked.

After standing, he moved to a table in the corner and picked up the ornate bottle of booze, "God…" He looked back and forth between her and the bottle, by only the light of the big yellow moon invading through the curtains, and spoke as if she was awake and listening, "This is older than you are…Maybe I'll let you sample some...when you can…meaning another year or so." He swirled in around in an equally decorated, crystal glass, and took a slow sip before pacing back to the head of the bed, bending down, and placing a kiss on her forehead. "Good night-" He paused, feeling the need to add a patronizing yet somewhat complimentary pet name, but one could not come to mind. Beautiful might have worked…darling seemed overkill. With a shrug and a smirk, he gave her one last looking-over before leaving her room for the night.


	15. Bathrooms and Bedrooms

Blurbs. Dr. Crane coming in and out of the room. A stabbing pain now and again. A couple glasses of water. Some sun coming in through the curtains. It being dark in the room another time. A few different gowns. Regardless, when Kala opened her eyes on that fourth day, she was still disoriented and confused as to how she ended up on the set of _Green Acres. _She sat up for the first time in days and felt her scab stretch. Her back popped; she scrunched her toes up to pop them as well. Dr. Crane wasn't in the room. Her throat was dry, and she was relieved to find a glass of water sitting on the nightstand. She chugged it quickly, enjoying the cool liquid that quenched her thirst.

The sun shone in through the faded curtains, awakening her to the heat. She remembered being cold a lot in the past few days but for once she was hot. Her thin gown, soaked with sweat, clung to her otherwise bare body; the sight made her cross her arms over her chest. _I should look around. Can I stand up? Will it hurt? Maybe I should get dressed first but wait I have no clothes. Hmph. What if he's in the other room? Should I act flirty or blow up at him for this kind of degradation? _She looked down at herself. _Flirty it is. _Shaking, she braced herself with her arms and swung her legs to hang off the bed. Her feet planted on the smooth, hardwood floor. _One. Two. _Balancing on the nightstand, she pulled herself out of bed. A rush of dizziness swept her, leaving her clinging to the doorframe. _Come on! _She stumbled into the tiny halls. _White wood wall paneling? So sad. _Directly across from her was another door. _Probably another bedroom. I'll check that out in a sec. _

Holding onto the wall for support, she maneuvered her way down the stubby hallway and into a little living room. Another outdated tv sat against a wall between two windows fitted with equally, and similarly outdated, floral curtains lined in lace. Everything was lined in lace. A yellowed, once white, crocheted doily sat atop the floral couch. There were old books, kitty knickknacks, and crosses with Bible verses adorning the place. An antique issue of _Time_ sat on the little, wooden coffee table, alongside a crystal bowl filled with individually wrapped hard candies. The rocking chair in the corner beside a basket full of knitting materials. It looked like the generic depiction of any grandmother's house, except that every grandparents' house Kala had ever been in was decked with pictures of a smiling family. This house had no pictures, no personal effects. What made it even eerie was that the house was spotless and the things such as the knitting materials were all left as if someone had sat them down to answer a phone call; perfectly paused and preserved. It was eerie, but she shuffled along into the kitchen.

_Really? No updates here either? _The kitchen was also outdated, but plastered in an awfully tacky rooster wallpaper. There were too many cookie jars partnered with appliances from the 50s. A new box sat on top of the stove. _Whaaaa? _She stepped over and could smell something sweet. There was a note folded next to the box; "Dear Kala, My apologies for being out this morning, but I had some important errands to run. Help yourself to breakfast. Clothes and toiletries are in your bathroom. Enjoy yourself, I'll be back as soon as I can. You're welcome. –J.C."

"Don't mind if I do." She opened up the little white box and was pleasantly surprised with cinnamon rolls. Leaning on the counter, she opened cabinets until she found a plate, a cup, and utensils. Thankfully, the house was fitted with a microwave. She heated up her pastries and opened the fridge. _I doubt it but-HEY! He got milk. Dude's on top of things. _

After breakfast, she decided to find out what was awaiting her in the bathroom.

There was a makeup bag on the counter, along with some various soaps and hair-care products similar to the display the night of their "first date." _Razors anyone? Please? In the bag maybe? _She dug around in the tiny bag. _Ah-ha! Wait…_ After setting the razor aside on the counter, she withdrew a circular, plastic, container. _Maybe a compact? _Instead, when it opened, she was greeted by ring after ring of pastel colored pills. She dropped it, then shuffled to pick it up. _Should I be scared or excited? We'll read into it more later. _

A minute later, she was standing in the shower, lathering with whatever fruity bodywash he'd left for her, and twirling in the hot water that she'd been denied at Arkham. She finally had hot water, a clean, private shower, and fluffy towels. Everything was appreciated until hot water splashed onto her wound. The pain once again made her vision blur. That's when her shower ended, her side hurt, and she was overheating. _Ice water in the kitchen. Too hot for pants. _She stepped out of the shower and peaked out the door. _Home alone? _"Hello?" No answer. "Jonathan?" No answer. She decided that being home alone, her towel would suffice for clothing and her hair was fine wet.

Holding onto it, she went to the kitchen and fixed herself a glass which disappeared quickly. As she replaced it, her eyes focused on the door to the other bedroom. _That's GOTTA be his…I wonder if he's just staying there, or if he actually lived here for a while… _She set the glass down on the counter, still holding her towel together, and returned to the other bedroom door. Using her free hand, she opened the door and turned on the lights.

The room was baby blue with oak furniture, like the bones of the room fit with the rest of the house while the contexts drastically differed. There were black, black-out curtains over the windows, a black rug, and black bedding. A desk sat in the corner, covered by scattered blueprints. Several bookshelves were in the room, accompanied by candles, lamps, and books. Best yet, all over the walls, there were drawings pinned up, all blacks and greys whether it was pencil, charcoal, or ink. Several mediums but few colors. She could make out several scarecrows in pictures from afar, but stepped toward one on the wall across from the door for a closer look. No sooner could she lean in to examine it.

"How are you feeling?"

She whirled around, losing grasp of her towel in the mean time. "Jonathan!"

He stood in the doorway with a straight face, one eyebrow raised, wearing jeans, a white t-shirt, and work boots. He carried a brown paper bag. "I went into town, to the pharmacy, to get more first aid supplies for your injury."

_I'm naked and THAT'S what he says?! _

"I can see you've found the shower."

"Yeah!" She reached down and yanked the towel up in an attempt to cover herself. "I'm so sorry! I uh, I have-"

"No reason to apologize." She blushed and turned away. "No reason to bother with the towel either." _Oh boy… _"What else did you find in your bathroom?"

Her attempt at played cool failed miserably as she blurted, "Pills! But I didn't take any! Yet! Because haven't read the information! But I will! Soon! I swear-"

"Shhhh," He took a step forward, prompting her to take a step back, tripping and landing on the edge of his bed. "That's as expected but it will take a few days to actually work…so we'll just have to work around it. Ok?"

"I uh, I…" He closed kicked the towel aside, and closed the distance.


	16. So Many Questions

The bathroom mirror provided a clear view of his childhood bed as he washed his hands with a pastel bar of antibacterial soap. He smirked, considering how his grandmother would've reacted to seeing the flushed, sweaty coed in his room. That hadn't happened since before his first in person encounter with the Batman, almost ten years ago. She was an intern who ended up being less than competent and more than bothersome. Conveniently, she suffered a psychotic break and quickly found herself on the other side of Arkham's bars, where she stayed until the building collapsed into flames. He hadn't even thought of her until now, but it didn't phase him. After all, he'd upgraded from a mousy skeleton to curvaceous supervillain in training. He dried his hands and leaned in the doorway watching her.

She was still breathing hard, smiling slightly, staring at the ceiling.

He grabbed the first aid kit from under the bathroom counter, "I'm going to change your bandages now." For a moment, he debated whether or not to roll down his sleeves, but elected to leave them up.

"Wow…" She panted.

"I can assume that that was the first time that has happened to you?" He asked, taking a seat on the side of the bed. "Please scoot this way."

"Uh…well…Technically no…Once in high school, I was dating this rocker type and we messed around a little, but he was a sixteen year old boy I mean… THAT didn't happen…I uh…wow…"

As he undid her bandages, his focus slipped between the bandages and the rest of her. "Healing ok?"

"Ow! Yes, I think, but I'm not a doctor. Hey, if you don't mind me asking and being cliché, where are we?"

"Nebraska. My grandmother's home. I grew up here actually. This was my room."

"Kinda figured, where is your grandmother?"

"Dead, specifically hanging as the scarecrow in the middle of the field behind the house."

"Wait, seriously? SHIT!" She twitched and drug her wound across bandages.

"If you will stay still, you won't experience as much pain."

"Sure, fine. Did you kill her? And why are we here? Just escaping the wreckage?"

"Yes and yes."

"Why? And how long will we be here?"

"About another week. We'll let the media die down."

"Then where're we going?"

"A mansion just outside of Gotham."

"Yours?"

"Essentially. Why so many questions?"

"You didn't even answer all of them."

"I killed my grandmother because she was a horrid woman who deserved to die. And if you'll forgive me being cliché, she knew a little more than she should."

"Like what?"

"So many questions…We can talk later…After you clean up and put some clothes on." He taped her wrap and stood.

"You didn't have a problem with my lack of clothes a couple of minutes ago."

He exited, "I do now."

She grinned, rolled over, and tried to stand, once again jell-o legged, but this time for a starkly different reason. "Soooo weird." Then she called to him, "Why a week?"

"CLOTHES."


	17. Going to Town

"Ta-da!"

"You expect me to shave my head?"

"No, I expect you to wear a bald cap and put on a fake beard." She pointed at her pencil sketches of potential disguises. "Oh come on, aren't we supposed to look as different as we can?"

"Touché."

"And you have the mask, but I don't have a villain guise. You have my sketches don't you?"

"The reaper character?"

"Yes."

"If you can do it without looking cheap."

"And we'll be living where exactly?"

"Do you remember Mr. Falcone?"

"'Gotham's Gangster'?"

"Yes…I'm afraid Mr. Falcone took ill prior to his trial."

"Mentally, I'm assuming?"

"Unfortunately."

"Did he burn in Arkham?"

"No, he did not."

"So he's alive?"

"No, he is not."

"That doesn't make sense."

"One question at a time. The point is, we will be staying in his vacation home just outside the city."

"Hiding in plain sight, huh?"

"I feel that you'll find that residence more comfortable, as will I."

"What about the rest of the clan?"

"Not in the vacation home."

She thought for a minute, "We're going there because it's a good location, it's empty, and I'm assuming there will be cash there? And weapons?"

"Exactly."

"Won't we need help? Guards, minions, or something?"

He stood from the tiny kitchen table and opened his briefcase on the counter. She watched him withdraw a thick stack of manila file folders. "I prefer the term employees."

She took the file folders, "These are Arkham's patient files. These guys are all bat shit crazy."

"Exactly."

"And the directions are in the truck?" She spun the key ring around on her finger.

"Yes."

"Good. Um, I guess I'll be back in a little bit."

"Actually it's about an hour away."

"Ok then."

He handed her a full money clip. "This should cover it?"

"Yeah, latex and glue aren't that expensive."

"Good. I'll be waiting then."

"Wait, you aren't coming with me?"

"No, I wouldn't know what to purchase and my face is on the news. Yours is not. You can go out without special effects makeup. I don't want to risk anything."

"Right." She finished buttoning up her floral frock. _They won't take me seriously. I usually look like a makeup artist, so looking less like myself means less like a makeup artist. Ellie Mae does not do makeup. _

He tucked her hair behind her ear. "And you WILL NOT risk anything. I trust you."

_He trusts me? Oh hell… _Stepping out of the house and into the sunlight, she squinted at the brightness. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been outside during the day. The rusty, red pick-up sat in the dirt driveway. It smelled old, but sputtered to life. It would be the first time she'd driven in years. Her hands slid back and forth on the old, steel wheel. The paper directions set in the passenger's seat. _Is there even a printer in the house? _After manually rolling down the windows, she took off down the dirt road, past countless cornfields. Oddly enough, she was excited, excited to be driving, excited to be working on a special effects project, and on the drive, forgot about her new therapist.

The drive to Lincoln wasn't as long as she'd expected, nor was the shopping trip. She'd avoided sales associates and questions and made her purchases from the costume store in less than ten minutes. Back in the car, she looked around at the other cars in the parking lot and the other buildings. She was free, finally. No longer caged, it was a good feeling. Then she realized that she had cash, and a car. She could drive west and start over. No one would ever know, and maybe Dr. Crane would never find her. But could she betray that trust? She thought of the promises of money and freedom he'd promised her. She thought of the time they'd spent in the operation room in the abandoned side of Arkham, and their recent encounter in his bedroom. Shivering at the memory, she started the car, and headed back to the farm. Something about him made him hard to walk away from. She began to wonder about what else he had planned for them. Would they share a bedroom in the new house? What would not "working around it" mean? Yes, she was finally free, but in her newfound freedom, decided to return to Jonathan.


	18. The Scarecrow Moved

On their final night in Nebraska, Jonathan was anticipating making the move to Gotham, and Kala was anticipating Jonathan making a move. They sipped wine with dinner and after, she slipped into an almost sheer white nightie. He seemed to have not noticed as he continued with his work and ignored her repeated plays for his attention. A hand through his hair. He didn't react. A hand on his shoulder. He didn't react. A hand on his thigh.

"I have a lot to do to guarantee our safe travels tomorrow."

_You'd think the shrink could take a hint. Come on, he has to be interested. Who would get involved once then drop it? Jerk. _She sat on the table.

"Really? Can't it wait for a little while?" She cooed.

Finally, frustrated, he shoved back from the table. "No, it can't wait. So if you'd please excuse me."

Taken aback, she stood and walked back towards her room, feeling scolded like a child would. She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly more aware of the air, ashamed of herself. _A brilliant student and talented artist reduced to lingerie. Way to forget about training to be a villain in favor of letting your hormones get a hold of you. _But she knew that the degradation was her own fault. After all, she was the one that tried to make a move. She couldn't help but wonder if she would've come to her senses had she not been rejected? _Had he not rejected me, I could've been sweaty, still on the kitchen table, feeling worse about myself. Or maybe I would be feeling amazing, though I doubt he's the cuddle after type. _Ultimately she was just confused. She lay trying to sort out the logic for herself until she fell asleep.

Clack-clack.

_It's the wind. Go back to sleep. _

Clack-clack.

_Damn wind._

Clack-clack.

_Wind blowing the screen door?_

Clack-clack.

_Is the screen door open? _She sat up quickly and groaned. _Come on, wake up! Gah, what kind of wine WAS that?_ Her balance was fine, but her vision blurred a little. _What kind of wine leaves you dizzy after a single glass? And what time is it? Almost midnight? I couldn't have slept for more than an hour, could I? Where's the clock? _She shuffled across to his room and pushed the door open. It looked like he'd gone to bed, without actually being in the bed. The rest of the house was also dark and silent.

"Jonathan?" She whispered. _Did he step outside maybe? There's the clacking. _It was in fact the screen door blowing and she expected to see him on the porch because of it. He wasn't on the porch. _Did he leave? But the truck is still there? _

"Jonathan?" She called louder this time and still didn't receive an answer. The screen door slammed shut. She jumped back and ran down the stairs into the dirt. "Jonathan?!" She didn't get an answer, which scared her. Backing up again, she almost stumbled over an indention in the dirt. A footprint. Multiple footprints, heading toward the cornfield. There was movement deep in the field. A rustle. She followed it into the cornfield. Drowsy and dizzy, she pushed on, to follow the noise, to follow the prints. She was frightened and worried and felt that finding him would calm her.

Something rustled behind her. She froze. Something rustled to the other side.

"Jonathan?" There was a bang somewhere nearby. She jumped and ran blindly through the field until she came to a clearing, a clearing with a scarecrow. She saw the scarecrow lift its arm off of its stand. Too scared to scream, she took off in the other direction. Her pulse pounded too loudly in her head for her to clear her thoughts.

Panicked, she tried to look out over the corn. She saw the moon, a scarecrow in one direction, and a barn in the other. It was surreal. _Am I hallucinating? _The feeling was the same she'd felt that night in Arkham. Pure terror.

She made it to the barn and slammed the doors behind her. Leaning on the doors, she blinked to try to adjust her eyes. The moon shined in the holes in the roof enough for her to see, but regardless of how many times she blinked, her eyes couldn't focus. Something flickered like in the back of the barn. Shaking her head, just as adrenaline filled before, her instincts told her that something was not right about that barn. She whirled around the leave, but instead, slammed into another figure.

Her scream echoed through the old wood. It wrestled with her, eventually getting a grip around her waist. She knew she couldn't scramble away. It was stronger. With another jerk, her hand brushed something rough. Burlap. As a last effort, she pried at the arms around her, before she was drug to the back of the barn.


	19. Good Morning

Groggy, Kala opened her eyes and sat up to find herself, oddly, in the same gaudy, floral bedroom in the Crane's farmhouse.

She didn't remember going to bed the night before. Rubbing her head, a few pieces blurred back into her conscious: the moon, the smell of grass, the feeling the dirt on her hands and feet. _A cornfield? A corn-maze maybe? A barn, some candles, a quilt. Hay, burlap…some sharp pains…a heat, unlike anything she'd experienced before. _

Her heart sped up a bit. _Was that a dream? _She yanked the blankets from her to find herself perfectly clean and pristine, wearing another antique, lace nightie. Confused, _that was so real_, she made her way to the bathroom and looked over herself in the mirror. Not a hair was out of place. No dirt anywhere. _What? _She paced back to the bed and lowered herself to sit, when it hit her. It was a dull throb in her lower body that made her jump, surprised. _What could have caused THAT soreness? I haven't done anything strenuous…_

Then memories flooded back, her being drug across the barn floor and tossed into the hay, a figure above her. A small gasp slipped out. _He wouldn't…_

Dr. Crane opened the door, "Get dressed. Pack your things. We're leaving in an hour." He shut the door behind him, not acting any differently than usual. Her mental camera snapped a still of his face, his eyes, the same eyes she remembered hovering above her the night before.

Within the hour, they were loading suitcases into the truck. He helped her into the truck, his hand on the small of her back more tender, more familiar than before. It sent a shiver up through her body. That's when she knew she'd spent the night with the Scarecrow.


	20. Letter to Reader

Dear Readers,

Whether you picked up in the story recently or followed these characters from the beginning, I appreciate your interest and following. I also very much appreciate your patience; as a full-time student and part-time worker, I don't have as much time for writing as I'd like. Speaking of beginnings, now you know theirs, but their story is far from over. I want to offer a choice for my readers; continuing their story in the same story or starting another story as a sequel? I am concerned that staying on the same story will get very wordy and discourage new readers. Please either message me or review with your preference. Also, feel free to contact me with questions, comments, and concerns. I would very much like to hear any suggestions for future plot points. I hope you enjoyed the beginning, and will continue following these characters. Thanks for reading.

Love,

Fantasma


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